Sims 2

we made little adulthoods in her basement.
thirteen-year-olds with smudged fingers
and greasy hair. legs folded. mismatched socks.
the TV screen delivered permiable houses
full of doll-children. brushing teeth 
& changing souls & kissing function.
took turns with the one controller.
i wanted my Sim to have a baby. she wanted
her Sim to marry three people. there were
limited outcomes. crying in a bathroom.
moving the new sofa in from heaven.
our careers were erradic. we had no direction.
let the house go to ruin. forgot to care for
our friend & she became an urn 
in the front yard. a life inside a life
inside a life. as i played i wondered 
what my body would become. maybe i wished
for an electronic button finger 
to make these decisions for me. my body 
spilled out in every direction. girlhood was
for me a process of terror & maybe not even
because i'm trans. i loved dressing her.
gave my Sim leggings. made her skinny 
as the settings would permit. we played until
her step mother flickered the basement lights 
& said, "it's getting late." eyes full 
of body, we carried our dream selves to bed.
i wanted to be her. beautiful & so easily managed.
a command for this & that. in my own skin
i swam in her bedroom's dark. in the machine
my Sim slept & never woke up. we didn't play again.
i'm not sure why not. girl's desires come & go.
the next weekend we baked brownies & the weekend after
we laid on our backs playing with our gameboys.
she's still there. a dormant future.
my beautiful Sim. eyes closed & hands folded 
over her chest. a pendant in the wire world.
in her desires, do some of mine still flicker?

medical waste

my chest is in the same pond as my grandfather's legs.
there are eyes in the reeds blinking. caution, a hazardous
body is arriving in the morning. a dotted line 
skipped across like lacing. sew me shut before you go.
wipe your teeth free of leaves. i have dreams
my scars will breed. circle me cyclone like 
the years of a tree. i eat root vegetables. pull them
free from the soil & i find fingers always clutching
one another. in the little plastic bag is a worry
but nothing to be troubleed about. i hope god isn't 
a doctor. nothing is sterile. i have contaminated even
my memory of forks. skin slipped away as smooth 
as synthetic silk. a night robe used as a flag.
come in the water is very cold. the air has never
been used before. what would my grandfather think
of where his skin went? he wanted to be donated 
to science but he was dead too long. i too want 
experiment in my history but it's too soon. 
or maybe not. maybe the blood was funnel into 
a loom. maybe i'm one step closer to reincarnation.
i have no use for a pin cushion not with the back 
of my hand all bare & easy. i fix his laugh to the wall.
did he eve laugh? the truth is memory, especially flesh memory
is mostly invented. my grandfather is pieces
nothing to be captured anymore. i too cannot go whole.
that was reserved for saint mary. it's unfair.
what an easy way to not dismember. i'd share my blood
with anyone who asks nicely. plug myself into 
the garden if i have to. a petri dish is calling
& i should really answer. i have a cell splitting 
that wants so badly to be a palm. 

delivery

in the red wagon we carried the meteor 
to our closet. the wagon begged us
to report our finding to the police
but we told our old implement he was a snitch.
sewed the old door shut. made breakfast eggs
& talked about weather until weather stopped.
i wanted to make a crown from the rock
but the neighborhood boys wanted
to make bullets or slingshot-fodder.
isn't that always the way? boys think 
of domination only in terms of violence.
on the second day the meteor started
to spit out old heels scuffed & unless.
someof the boys put them on & told me
not to tell anyone. in the wagon, i pulled them
down to the hole in the earth where we found it.
corn dispersed by impact. i felt jealous.
i have anyways wanted to fall with that kind of force.
leave a mark in the dirt. i used to jump 
from the roof but a parachute always opened
out my skull. who put it there? self preservation
is a game of thinking ahead of your most
combustive self. i buy matches in bulk.
confess to the meteor that i'm not really sure
what the point is. what a kid is supposed to do
when they discover something like this.
i hoped for an invasion. extraterrstrials
knocking on my door but instead the meteor
just weeps & begs to be let go. 
i confess "i don't know how to let you go."
the wagon is furious all the while.
paces the driveway with squeaky wheels.
i ask for a truce & lay down inside.
"take me anywhere else," i say so the wagon does.
carries me up & down country roads 
until we reach the edge of the map 
where no one has made up anything worthwhile.
i ask, "here?" the wagon says, "here." 
looking up at the incomplete sky i hope
some kid on another planet finds an earth fragment
& has the same dilema. the worst feeling
is that you might be the only person 
to feel so strongly about an incident.
i don't cry even though i kind of want to.
finally, years later, i follow the faint
wagon wheel trails back home. metero gone
from the closet. neighbor boys
throwing shards back up to the dark sky.

petting zoo ducks

the petting zoo ducks are 
tearing pieces off the sun as if it were
another potato roll or window of white bread.
wearing their iridescent masks
they plunder the graveyard of flowers
& return to the pen before
any human can notice. they are nothing
like the goats or even the horse
all of which can convince themselves
of a two-finger touch. the ducks
refuse caress & in return demand
handful & worship. the ducks take turn
guessing what it once meant 
to be "wild." one duck thinks 
only falcons & eagles are truely 
unbound like that. another duck thinks
it's as simple as a barrier. 
anyone without a fence is wild
& those with one are contained.
the ducks recall being carried like 
loaves of bread. the ducks often
try to eat more than they know they should.
the ducks drink water in morsels
& ask summer to at least bring
cool dark nights. one duck tells
the same story every dusk. he says that once
there was a great pond thick with algae 
& brimming with everything delectable.
there were no other two-footed species
only ducks & there ducks flourished.
he is trying to get back to that pond
& on his worst days he tries to dig it himself
in the mud of the pen. the truth though is
he could fly out. he could escape.
play in the church cementery or
make a shadow on the sidewalk. 
the pen just feels a brutal necessity.
what if he were to walk too far
& lose all possible rein. no he would stay
& the other too. pluck feathers & stick them
in the mud. call it a forest. 
then, balancing the sun-taste
with a nibble of moon. just a taste.
smooth & cool. quenching. bringing sleep.
the ducks sleep with their eyes open 
as stars. dream of un-dangerous touch.
a reach. a grasp. the pond closing 
like a blinked eye. 

on the side of the highway flowers bloom like spotlights

& your face is as bright as any omen.
i cut holes in the wall to access the future
where we will be happily. take my hand 
like a steering wheel. hitch the horse
to the dumbwaiter. i have a ghost story for you 
about how each lover haunts the next & the next.
the world is a scheme of last weeks & 
in a few years but i love you now like
glass combat boots & ivy.  
roadkill shadows strech & shimmy 
up the block. A clumsy deer & 
an asterisked raccoon. i would like to
take your shadow & hold them hostage.
touch your shadow's smooth shoulders.
Feed your shadow spoonfuls of honey until
it gives into gold. you are the most beautiful human
for this moment. i am asking each tree i pass
to learn how to grow apples. temptation 
is not in the fruit-flesh but in the seed.
i was eve before i transitioned. i fed boys apples
& told them it was their fault. i shaved my head
in a lava flow & watched as each strand glowed.
now you are here & you are kissing me.
i am the leaf & the are the tree. if i kneel here,
what kind of worship do you prefer? sacrifice 
has many methods. we could even just 
watch as the leftover horses spill
into the creek. i have a campsite 
in my closet for whenever you're feeling
more tangible. cut a lock of hair.
those bright bright flowers with their 
nail files & their false teeth. they have
no right trying to eclipse you in glow.
i'm going to cut them down & vase them
in the kitchen. when i was dying 
my mother brought me a bouquet. i felt 
loved & special like i was in a concert. 
the roadkill thought i was
being dramatic. i was. i really was. 
enough of that though. here is the apple
& here is my little garden 
where i ask the dirt for asparagus 
& just recieve old wedding rings.
if you find one you like you can keep it.
just don't tell the shadows. 

oroboro

we put the onion rings on our fingers
in preparation for our favorite circle.
i said, "will you marry me?"
to the 1/2 mile track loop 
in my own chest. round & again.
take a new obit to the basement today.
my office building became 
a beach ball & had a much better 
rest of their existence. my neighbors too.
i noticed they used to have
such smart & deliberate angles.
now, given in to bubble & wave,
they don't do much but snort 
at passersby. it's hard not to be 
a tourist anymore. just yesterday 
i found the gift shop in my own kitchen
& bought a little baggie of smooth rocks.
there's not much to be done about
biting your own tail. it's there
& if you don't do it no one will.
then how will you remember your body?
self injury is a tactile guidebook.
i dog ear each page because they all
seem important. what i mean to say is
to keep going is to swallow 
your father's wedding band. i can press
on my sternum & feel it just beneath 
the surface. oh my little ring. 
my little "again." how am i going
to make it through a whole week 
without wearing your mouth?
i put a turnicate on the wound.
blood goes purple & violet. 
name a flower that doesn't grow
in a perfect circle. mushroom halos.
the ship's porthole (not to be mistaken
for portal). my extra set
of glass eyes are a richer deeper brown.
the brown of bear hearts & dead grass.
keep me in your thoughts
when you make a hard left. 
don't worry too much about 
distrupting the world order. 
i need a little more distruption.
lets float & stare down at glass milk bottles.
choose one to plummet inside.
hang out plumage out to dry.
spit the blood out in the compost pile
to ensure no round offspring. 
fruit swelling on the branches.
perfect circle plums. finger to their skin.
"calm down little seeds. relax." 

mcmansion 

by which i mean we lived 
inside a hot tub & worried about
the potential for pregnancy 
or patchy alternate realities.
put our hands over jet streams 
& downloaded our favorite music
right into our skulls. 
i didn't know what you were listening to.
everything was completrely private
behind lovely picket fences.
fences are expensive or was it
expansive. i love a nice division.
here is your arm & here is mine
& here is the polaroid we took 
to commemorate buying realestate 
on the moon. then the water gets warmer.
not global-warming heat but like
kissing-too-much heat. it's harder to breathe
each day. i want nothing to do with
tree planting. all my trees arrived 
like children. two-day shipping.
who needs dirt. washing my hands 
in the water. my leg becomes your leg
& i say, "hey give it back."
in the oven our premaid soccer game
is waiting like an enterprise.
i'd really love to float on my back
but looking directly up at the sky
makes it prone to glitching.
i can do without an existencial crisis 
for at least the next month.
don't have time i nthe schedule.
putting a reminder on my phone
to kiss you before
all the water evaporates 
& we have to ask the well 
what it thinks of our hair.
whose lawn is purring again? which car
is offering to drive any one in need
to the nearest cliff for irrevocable diving.
i'm trying to just take in the moment.
my therapist in the microwave says
i can't have it all so i shut the door
& tell her to calm calm down
it's not that serious. it's just a house.
i'm just a house. 

over

the children gather like
swans. necks loose & garden hose.
swing set at the edge of the park
where all the bicycle go 
to decay. one is telling others
"i can swing myself over the bar"
& everyone wants to see her do it.
the children is me. no just the girl
but also the boys with ill-fitting shirts
& another girl who watches
from the furtherest distance.
legs pumping like oil rigs.
up the street construction workers
break open the asphalt in a secret search
for gold. a parakeet whistles 
as brownies burn in the oven
of kitchen of the house next to the park.
the world is missing a beat. 
she kicks at the air. images 
knocking the faces off trees.
clouds reform to be less severe.
the children watch for hours
but become very bored. they wanted 
to see the over--the moment the swing
& the girl's body finally whip
around the tall bar. no luck no luck.
the girl powers the whole town
with her efforts. the world could run
on "over." i tell all my children
to find something else to occupy themselves
but the watching is contagious
& i find myself more & more staring.
handfuls of mulch. an abandoned lawn mower.
what we really need is not a lower swing
but a higher swing. the more impossible
the better. swing scraping
the moon. oh little girl self
i'm sorry to leave you there
trying to get over. i'm trying
to get over too. take me with you
on the way down only. children 
fall asleep standing up 
like horses. the moon up & leaves.
this is mostly all my fault.
eventually it happens. she wraps the swing
round the bar but no one is 
mentally present enough to notice. 
it's unfortunate. she probably won't
do it again. i tell my children parts
to go home & try to invent good parents
& leave the park alone for a few weeks
before things are settled & gone. 

numerology

balloons tied themselves 
to every single eye lash. i blinked
louder than jupiter & angerier 
than a shattered porch light.
laying on the sofa you counted
the hairs on my head & then
you asked me if i could see 
the angel-monsters sewing 
each second into place. i lied
& said i did. you were always
the mystic one with your 
ouija board fingers & your oracle
in the closet telling us
when we might die. you have a ritual
of only asking once a year
& you said to ask about your own death 
more than that was a sign of insanity.
did you know i went to question
every single night? each time
the throat gave me a new number.
month. day. year. i wrote them down
on scraps of toilet paper & notecards
& sometimes, on the backs of my hands.
how could it change so much? five years away
sixty years away. eight days away. 
i swam with numbers. laid down
in your whirling cast circles.
burned mugwort for peace. you held up
a tiny crystal ball & said
whenever you looked in it,
you only saw my face. i saw nothig
but blur. began to only trust numbers.
fixed & final. slept inside sevens
& made sure to kiss each day in even numbers.
hauling my body then to your oracle
& asking with trepedation
"do you know when i will die?"
you see i was not afraid of death
but worried i only had so much longer 
with you. yet, still, i wanted to be sure
to die first. i would not be lonely
with my numbers. did you truely 
never discover my habit? 
do you still have the oracle?
can i see it just once more.
i want a new number round
& etchable. i want to carve it.
mother it. hold it to its word. 

playland

the end times are for hamburgers
& brothers. we parked the car 
in lava & watched it melt like cheese.
brother the size of pea in our pockets.
he cried for french fries
so we ordered some without any salt.
took refuge in the molten plastic.
plumetted the red slide
& mashed in the ball pit like 
basketed tomatoes. 
there are no instructions 
for becoming an eldest brother.
you look at your hands & noticed
they are smaller than all your brothers
so you take them off & send them
to play with legos in purgatory.
enough ketchup to believe in blood again.
no wifi signal, just the mcdonalds clown
shouting news headlines at the top
of his lungs. what i wouldn't give
to be a mascot instead of boy-mother.
wash our hands in a slit cloud.
our shoes float off 
on a torrent of lime soda.
how were we supposed to keep
night from falling. then, curb-sitting
& counting loose stars.
is that your son? 
no that's my brother, he's
limited edition. take off
his detachable sadness & 
put it in the glove box.
we drive home through helpeless highways
still munching on this & that.
brother please stop crying, i hope
quietly to myself. guilt is 
the needle sewing each hair
into my head. a gust of wind
is a gentle repreieve. everything smells
like tatter-tots & processed patties.
feeding my brother from 
the palm of my hand. little animal.
i promise to guard him even if 
he only gets smaller. despite
the lateness of the moon
& despite the lack of honey mustard.
driving we pass playland 
after playland & he begs
to stop at each so i do. 
red slide. blue slide. tic tac toe. 
bare feet to sidewalk.
headlights spilling & ravenous.
we will be home soon
i promise him. he kisses 
my thumb.